


The Dreamer and the Misfit

by basedgrips, The_Female_Gaymer



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Broken Bones, Drinking, Drunk Driving, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fist Fights, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Love Confessions, M/M, Robbery, Smoking, Threats of Violence, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-12 02:29:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7916905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basedgrips/pseuds/basedgrips, https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Female_Gaymer/pseuds/The_Female_Gaymer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you gotta smoke, you gotta smoke. It's not always so great when someone interrupts on that personal time of yours, especially if it's the school outcast. Trevor doesn't seem to care at all. Michael's peeved.</p><p> </p><p>Hey, is that a pack of beer?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rush

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! This is an RP turned to fic format of some high school au Trikey I did a while back with basedgrips over on tumblr. I've been given the go-ahead to post it here. I hope you enjoy it, we worked hard on it; this is the culmination of weeks of work!
> 
> I played Trevor, and basedgrips played Michael.

Practice was over, and everyone was milling around the parking lot, making plans for tonight. Michael saw Amanda leaning against his mustang and he smiled wide; she looked so fucking sexy in her little cheer outfit and his letterman jacket. Seeing ‘TOWNLEY’ emblazoned on the back with her in it made him feel like that marked her as his.  
  
He snaked his arms around her waist and pulled her into a deep kiss. Cherry lipgloss was the first thing he noticed, it tasted and smelled oh so good. Feeling a little rowdy, he lifted her skirt ever so slightly to feel up her ass covered by her cheer shorts.

"Michael!" She chided before slapping his hand away. He grinned at her nice and wide before they detangled from their embrace.  
  
He patted his pockets and clicked his tongue. "Shit, I think I forgot my wallet; I'll be back, Mandy. Don't wait up, I'll call ya later!" She pouted at him before spinning around and hopping in her friend Stacy's car. He strolled over to the dark shade provided by the underside of the bleachers. He rummaged through his gym bag until he found what he wanted, a rectangular cardboard box. Bingo. He pulled out the carton of cigarettes and places one in between his thin lips.  
  
After taking his first drag, he instantly felt the tension leaving his body; it was a secret he had kept from Amanda. She hated smokers, but after he found this out, he had already developed a habit. He did a really good job of keeping it hidden from her, smoking after practices only. As he filled his lungs with the poisonous air, he let his eyes roam around the bleachers when he spotted a figure at the opposite side.  
  
He was thin, a mess of shaggy hair on top of his head. The gears in his head turned for a moment until it finally clicked. It was that one kid, Trevor. He had heard so much about him, but he had only spotted him a handful of times in his four years of school with him. He swore he had social studies with him this year, but he was barely there. Michael could feel himself tense up, exactly like he did before he smashed into an opponent or got ready to fight someone. He remained silent, opting to wait for him to make the first move. If he was as crazy as he heard (which was throw a teacher down a stairwell crazy), it was probably smarter for him to keep his cool and give him some space.

He'd just been minding his own business, using his dad's knife to carve out little chunks in the shitty wooden support beams. In a fit of anger and maybe a bit of crushing self-degradation, he had been carving everything that was wrong with him that all the other students had whispered past him in the halls. And, when he ran out of that, he started writing his own obituary.  
  
That's when the lead quarterback had come running back to the field, ducking under the bleachers for a bag. Townley. Trevor knew him. Everyone knew Townley, whether they'd seen his face or not. You just knew when he walked in the room, because the excited energy just sparked up like lightning.  
  
That same feeling overtook him now, only it was just him and Townley.  
  
He watched the quarterback with exhausted eyes, one tinged blue and black from a fight he'd found himself in earlier that week. When the other kid pulled a pack of cigs out of his bag, Trevor scoffed. It must have been loud enough to get Townley's attention, because he turned to look at him. Trevor grew defensive. He stuck his knife in his mouth, and spread his arms out wide.  
  
"The fuck're you lookin' at?!" he spat menacingly, drooling around the steel in his mouth as his teeth clenched to keep it in place. "Can't a guy carve out the support beams in fuckin' peace?!"

Now Michael scoffed. "Don't flatter yourself; I'm just smokin." He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked the other way. If there was anything that being popular had taught him, it was how to act super blasé about everything. To most, this delinquent would seem like a rabid wild animal, but for some reason, he just reminded Michael of a kid throwing a tantrum. When that happened, there was only one solution-- ignore him.  
  
Of course, as he looked the other way he couldn't help but wonder about that bruise. Michael wasn't a stranger to fights, but that shiner looked pretty bad. Who had given it to him? He blinked for a moment when he realized what he was thinking; who gives a shit who gave the little freak a black eye? He had other shit to worry about, like where he was going to take Amanda tonight.

"Oh, oh yeah?" Trevor hopped down from the beam he'd been sitting on, trudging over to Townley slowly, but surely. "Blackening those pretty bum-rushing lungs of yours, star QB? Eh? You know if you keep that dumb shit up you won't have a career past college. Are you fucking stupid? Are you a _fucking_ idiot?!"  
  
He shook his head, and redirected his attention to the next beam. "Un-fucking-believable."  
  
He winced when he raised his left arm to hold on to the beam, something akin to a stripper holding and leaning back from her pole, but somehow, he pulled it off in a masculine way. He brushed some long, feathery locks of dusty brown hair out of his eyes, curling back into the rest of the shag. He pointed the knife back at Townley, coming to a realization.  
  
"Does that whore of a woman of yours know about this nasty little habit, eh?"

Being yelled at by a druggie psycho like he was his mom or something was bizarre. So much so that it made him grin, but that wavered the moment he mentioned Mandy. He flicked the cigarette to the side and took a few steps towards him. Knife or not, no one talked about his girlfriend like that.  
  
"What the fuck did you just say?" Not waiting for an answer, he reached forward and shoved him, making him stumble backwards. "You're going around insulting people you don't even know when you're the freak of the school? Un-fuckin-believable." He cracked his knuckles in preparation for him to retaliate.

For a long moment, Trevor just stared. Then, he stepped backwards, holding his hands up to try to look less threatening, even though he still held his knife.  
  
"Pfsh, geeze, big man Townley can't stand an insult, or some healthy advice, what else is new with team spirit? And he don't know his woman's fuckin' nearly every other QB on the team? I knew you lot were dumber than rocks, but you! Hoo, boy, I thought they couldn't come dumber, but you!" He chuckled as he pointed the knife at him again. "You sure proved me wrong today. Congratulations, cowboy!"  
  
And he gave him mock applause, smirking like he was so clever.

Without hesitation, Michael lunged forward, socking him in the jaw. "You don't know shit, you freak!" He knew what he was saying was true, rumors had been spreading about her cheating on him for a few months now, but he ignored them. They were all just jealous; he and Mandy were the power couple of the school. His chest grew tight at the thought of him being right about Mandy. "Like I should listen to some almost drop out who looks like he hasn't showered in a month." He shook his head before he gave him a hard kick in the gut.

That first punch had sent Trevor sprawling to the ground, arms flailing wildly to keep him upright to no avail. The kick in his stomach pushed an "Oof!" out of his lungs, leaving him breathless. Even if Townley was another dumb QB, the kid was tough. Trevor couldn't deny that even if he wanted to.  
  
He rolled over, groaning, as he shakily pushed himself to his feet, the knife long forgotten. He drooled on the ground, smirking as he looked up at his attacker. The shadows of the bleachers cast long lines over their faces. There was pure raging fire in his eyes, and ire in his throat when he spoke.  
  
"Hurt me harder, daddy," and then he lost his composure, laughing and coughing into the dirt. "You can't hurt me-- not the way you're doing it, anyways. You don't know how it's done."

He felt the rage slowly evaporating from his body as he saw him laughing from being hit. That little kid analogy popped into his head yet again. When you hit a kid, they just cried more; it didn't work. Slowly, his fists fell to his sides. As much as he wanted to wring his neck, something held him back. For the first time, he felt like he was actually interested in something. As of late, anytime his friends talked to him, he could barely conjure up enough energy to pretend to care. But this skinny fuck piqued his interest.  
  
"What the hell are you talking about?" he asked, not offering to let him up. Michael simply watched him roll around in the dirt like he belonged there or something.

"Haven't you ever heard of psychological pain?" Trevor struggled to his feet, resting his hands on his knees and continued to try to catch his breath. "That shit's not something you can master. Haven't you seen me? Haven't you _looked_ at me? Townley-- what's your first name? Michael? Right? Well, listen, M, you think beating the shit out of me's gonna teach me a lesson? It's not. I don't give a shit how many bruises you paint me with, how many bones you break, because that shit heals."  
  
He finally had his breath back, and started looking around for his knife. Once he found it, he stuffed it into his left belt loop, ready to be yanked out again if necessary.  
  
"Now, say, if you manage to get under my skin-- which I doubt you could, and honestly! I dare you to try-- and hurt me, say, emotionally? Then we can say you've won. But until then..."  
  
Trevor snickered, prancing back and forth in front of him.  
  
"... you're just another half-brained QB, pal. And you smoke, so whoop-de-fucking-doo, see you at your funeral in forty years!"

Michael rolled his eyes at the smoking comment. If he wanted to get bitched at about it, he'd hang out with his friends. If even the freak was whining at him about it, then maybe he should fucking quit. "Yeah, well, I don't see the point. If you ask me, it almost seems like you're challenging me to try to get under your skin. Don't seem like a fun way to spend a Friday night."  
  
Then, something glinting caught his eyes; behind him he saw a few beer bottles. That wasn't uncommon back here, but he noticed that there was a decent amount of them that weren't open. He licked his lips and nodded over at them. "Those yours?" He liked to drink, hell who didn't? But with him and all his friends being under 21, alcohol was hard to come by. The college kids they used to pay to get them were refusing now. Their sources were coming up dry. More than even a cigarette, Michael ached to kick back and drink down a cold one.

Trevor looked back, making a questioning sound in the back of his throat. "Huh?" When he saw the beer bottles, his sounds of questioning turned to sounds of interest and desire.  
  
"Ohoho, lookie here. Nah, these aren't mine." He walked over to where the pack had been poorly hidden behind some tall blades of out of place grass. "But they are now! Heheheh." He yanked them out of the bushes, counting the six bottles carefully. "Two of these are already tainted," he commented as he took two untouched bottles for himself. "Maybe you're not completely useless after all-- your eyesight's better than mine, so hey, fuckin' celebrate that shit. It's about all your popular ass is good for to me right now."  
  
Without hesitation, Trevor pried open the first bottle with the tip of his knife, and chucked it back and down his throat, gulping loudly. He gasped-- it was warm, but quality beer. He then eyed Michael boredly. "What, you gonna fuckin' stand there like a pole or are you gonna down one?" He gestured to the pack.

He huffed before stepping forward and grabbing a bottle. He lifted it up and examined it for a moment before he realized that it was some quality shit. Why would someone abandon it here? Well it was his prize now; he reached into his pocket for his lighter. He pulled it out and placed the plastic end of under the cap, he gripped it firmly and flicked the lighter upwards. This made the cap fly up into the air, with a free hand he caught it expertly.  
  
Michael noticed Trevor eyeing him and he felt embarrassed to be showing off. Usually when he did that in front of his friends he was bursting with pride. But doing it in front of this guy made him feel like an idiot. "I, uh, learned that last year." He managed lamely before taking a long deliberate swig.

Trevor nodded once, staring at Michael with intense eyes. "It's neat," he told him honestly. He chugged some more of his bottle, leaning back to get as much out of it as possible in those few gulps. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and decided to fuck with Michael even more.  
  
"I'm not kidding about Amanda being a slut though," he said, only this time, much less confrontationally. "Granted, I haven't actually _seen_ her with that cute little skirt hiked up and a dick in her hole, but, uh, some guys have gotten a little touchy. Might wanna talk to that one exchange student-- what was his name? Fabian? Fuck, whatever it was." He took another swig of his beer, already feeling buzzed. It was one of the many downfalls of being a lightweight.  
  
"Surprised you ain't seen it yet for yourself. It's kind of as clear as a fuckin' window." He stared at Michael, awaiting his response, be it physical or not.

Michael didn't say anything as he took another swig. Was this that emotional Manipulation he was talking about? He had to admit Trevor was pretty good at it, mostly because in his heart he knew he was right. Once he was done with the beer he eyes the empty bottle for a moment before chucking it at the ground, making it explode from the force.  
  
"You think I'm a fucking idiot? I know it, and everyone else knows it. But what am I supposed to do? Go up to her and say, ‘hey Mandy, I heard you got double teamed in the locker room, is it true?’" He sighed as he reached for another beer. Why was he talking to him like this? For some reason, it felt safe; he was a social pariah that no one talked to, so his secrets were safe. He shook his head and starting laughing a little. "You know, you're good at that emotional manipulation shit. I'm not very good at keepin’ my mental guard up."

"Well, that's because you're a fuckin' quarter back, you're not exactly the smartest fucker in the pack. If you were someone like, uh, fuckin' what's his nerd face, Lester? If you were fuckin' Lester, you'd have gotten off your ass and walked the fuck away by now." Trevor finished his own beer, belching loudly as he tossed it in the same direction as Michael. It didn't shatter on impact, however, simply skidding along and spinning aimlessly. The lid stopped pointed at Michael, and Trevor snickered.  
  
"Oh, lucky fuckin' me, I get to smooch the star football jockey," he giggled.

The thought of Trevor kissing him made his skin crawl, but he started to blush for some reason. Eh, it must be the booze. He took a long chug. "Hey, what's your deal man. You don't chill ever, is there a particular reason you're such a spaz?" He raised a brow as he watched him. During their whole 'encounter' he noticed how he was always shuffling and bouncing around on his heels like he was in constant fight or flight mode.

Suddenly, Trevor barked at him, pissed. He grew defensive, shouting like a madman. He probably was.  
  
"I'm a fuckin' spaz now, is that what the fuck this is? The fuck's wrong with _you_?! Hanging out with these groupie fucks that can't see past the end of the fuckin' year!?" He stood up and started to pace, shouting.  
  
"Oh yeah, they're fuckin' livin' on top of it all, livin' off daddy's paycheck, well, what the fuck are you dumbasses going to do when the paychecks stop comin'? What're you gonna do when you get kicked the fuck out!? College isn't fuckin' cheap, you dumb prick! Okay, yeah, I'm fuckin' jumpy, well that's not a fucking problem, is it!? I got plans, asshole, big fuckin' plans!"

Well, he didn't answer his question, he just hurled them back at him. 'Deflecting,' as his therapist called it. "Is that how you handle questions? I answered your, questions but you don't have an answer to mine, huh. You just decide to hurl insults." He chuckled before he took another swig. "If you ask me, that's pretty fucking weak." Before Trevor had a chance to spazz out again he lifted a hand to trace the outline of his bruise. That was a side effect of drinking too much, he got way too touchy with everyone. "How'd you get that?"

Trevor tensed immediately, mouth working to protest being touched like this, but coming up with no words. His brain screamed bloody murder at him, telling him he should move his fucking arm and get this touchy son of a bitch off of him, but his arms weren't responding. He just sat there, and let Michael touch him.  
  
His hand... it was soft. It was strong, but it wasn't rough, like his, or like his mom's. It was soft. Before he realized what he was doing, he was leaning into Michael's hand and closing his eyes. Warm, too. Even despite his smoking, it was warm.  
  
It all lasted but a split second-- Trevor righted himself, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Uh, those Lost bastards cornered me the other day after school. Had a grand ol' time." It was the most basic description of what had happened-- he prayed this QB weirdo wouldn't press for details.

Michael’s hand dropped as well as his jaw when he heard that. "Oh shit, that fucking biker gang that hangs out by the bar on Hobart street? I heard those fuckers curb stomp you just for looking at them too long." He crossed his arms as he looked at him with a grin. If it had been anyone else he would have thought it was bullshit. But Trevor seemed unhinged and crazy enough to take them on. "That's pretty impressive, what the hell did they want from you?" He wasn't trying to pry him anymore, he was just genuinely curious. If he wasn't so buzzed, he would have noticed how visibly flustered Trevor got after he touched him.

"Oh, you know, taking as many wallets as I can get my grubby little hands on," he said dismissively. "Shitting on as many bike seats as I can, usual teenager stuff, right?" Really, the truth was he'd just talked a little too much smack and maybe wooed one of the prettier side-chicks, but for whatever reason, he found himself wanting to sound cool to this guy-- Townley's disbelief when he'd told him the Lost had beat his ass made him want to sound cool. He waved his hand like he was waving smoke out of the air, and shook his head.  
  
"God fuck, I need another drink." He reached for his second bottle, ready to open it, but then looked back at Michael.  
  
"Do that flame thing again," he commanded, thrusting the bottle into his hands. "I wasn't watching closely the first time."

Michael nodded. With a grin, he reached for another beer and grabbed his lighter. "The key to the trick is poppin’ the cap off with the plastic end of the lighter, not the metal." He held the lighter by the metal part and held it up for Trevor to see. "Then you have to make sure ya grip it right. It took me a while, but once ya get it, ya get it." He gripped the bottle firmly and, with a flick of the wrist, the cap flew up in the air again and he caught it. With a smug grin, he took a long sip; he actually felt proud this time.  
  
Trevor smirked widely, snatching the bottle back from him. "That's real fuckin' grand, using one vice to further another. What a fuckin' time to be alive. But seriously, cool tricks, man." He took three quick swigs in succession before speaking up again.  
  
"So, listen, QB, about your girl... I didn't mean to... well, I did mean to crawl under your skin, but I didn't think it'd hit so fuckin' close to home. And I just kept diggin’, and that's my fault, and I guess... I guess I'm sorry. You're not that bad, I guess. Even if you flap your mouth when you shouldn't, but fuck, at this point, everyone does." He huffed, and leaned backwards, resting his head on Michael's shoulder with a shit-eating smirk. "I mean, you're actually interested in my shenanigans, so that's something."

It was probably the weirdest apology he had gotten, but it was also the most sincere. He was nodding and just when he was about to tell him he forgave him, he placed his head on him. Some fuzzy sober part of his brain told him to shove him off. But the hazy overwhelming drunk part encouraged him to lift his arm and wrap it around his skinny shoulder. "Hey, forget about it, I punched you. Let's call it even huh?"  
  
Talking to him made him feel like he was actually listening to him. When he was hanging out with his friends, he felt like no one was there. It seemed like Trevor was having the same issue, but from the opposite side. No one was around to bother to listen to him.

Trevor seized up when Michael returned his subtle sign of affection. Wasn't this the QB that was about as hetero as it gets? What the hell was he doing putting his arm around him?  
  
He decided not to mention it. His arm was warm. His entire body was warm. Warmer than anything he'd felt in a long time. And his common sense was slowly melding away in the face of a little too much booze. He slowly willed himself to relax.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, 's not like my jaw's gonna be twice its normal size in the morning, but sure, we'll forget about that too." He coughed as he struggled to move even closer to Michael's warmth.

They sat there for a moment together. Michael breathed in Trevor's scent, that hasn't showered in a month insult was unfounded. He smelled really good actually, natural. Not like the cherry lipgloss Amanda wore and the perfume she doused herself in. He was getting more and more hazy as they touched each other like this; maybe it wasn't the booze? "You gotta learn how to fight if you're gonna be picking fights with the Lost and quarterbacks. Being crazy helps, but that only gets ya so far." With his free hand he took a long swig of beer.  "I'll teach ya sometime." The second it came out of his mouth he regretted it-- he was committing social suicide.

His jaw dropped at Michael's proposition. "No shit?" he asked, eyes shining like a little kid that had seen reindeer fly. "You, Michael Townley, star QB, are going to teach me how to fight?"  
  
He sat up from Michael, and stumbled to his feet, wobbling a little in his drunken haze.  
  
"Bullshit." He paused, scratching a bit of invisible stubble at his chin. There was no way Townley was serious. It had to be some sort of joke. But now, Trevor was curious-- he wanted to see whatever this was all the way through to the end.  
  
"But if you're serious..." He looked around for a second. "If you're serious, I guess... meet me back here. After next practice. We can train here. Secluded, away from the eyes of those other jock bastards you call your friends, easy to find. Unless you've got a better idea of a meeting place?"  
  
It took all of his willpower to hide the shaking in his hands. He was going to learn to fight from a star QB. That was insane. Michael should want nothing to do with him, and yet, here he is, offering to train him like something out of a Karate Kid movie. He wanted to shoot through the bleachers into the sky.

Michael crossed his arms and pondered it for a moment. "Yeah, sounds good for now, but we gotta find another spot eventually. It's not good to learn how to fight on asphalt. " Plus, the more they were here, the higher the chances of them getting caught. There wasn't any way possible way he could justify them being together. It was mostly out of pity; he knew that Trevor didn't have any friends. Hell, everyone talked about him, but no one ever seemed to talk _to_ him. He also didn't want to lose this feeling, like he was actually having a connection with someone.

Trevor shouted, pumping his fists in the air. He then looked Michael dead in the eye and said:  
  
" 'Lois, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.' " and then promptly burst into laughter. He finished his beer bottle, and crashed it against the beam he'd been carving into earlier just before Michael had beat the shit out of him-- not the one with the obituary, but the second one. A single word was carved into it-- Freak.  
  
"Fucking hell!" He hollered excitedly, stumbling out of the bleachers and into the sunlight, or at least what was left of it. "It's a beautiful fuckin' day! Okay, Townley, listen up-- I'll be back here, after practice. Don't you fuckin' pansy out on me! I will..."  
  
And he approached Michael with the beginnings of a threat in his eyes, breathing drunkenly on the other teen.  
  
"I will... make your life so miserable... you'd rather be me every day for the rest of your life than suffer another day. Understand?"

Michael nodded. Now things were starting to make sense, it all clicked. The reason he was so defensive, why he knew so much about emotional manipulation; he was the product of it. In his gut, he knew he should have been honest. Told him about how they couldn't possibly be friends due to the rules of high school. But he was drunk and aching to feel this more, this sense of belonging. "I understand." He wobbled for a moment; oh yeah he was definitely drunk. "I'm way too drunk to drive." He mumbled to himself, his brow furrowing in worry.

Trevor scoffed at him. "What, QB can't handle his drink? Fuck it, I'll drive you. My truck's parked around back."  
  
He gave Michael a firm shove, nearly falling over himself when he did so, and snatched up Michael's bag for him. "If a QB ain't gonna take risks, I'll take 'em for him. Come on, chop chop, march, soldier!"  
  
Trevor had driven drunk so many times, gotten away with so much shit, that he was no longer concerned about whether he broke the law or not. If Michael wasn't going to grow the pair to do so, he was going to do it himself. Anything to get on his "Sensei's" good side, so he could learn the fighting and shit.

He stumbled as he followed after him. He wasn't as drunk as him so he could drive him. A part of him grew paranoid. What would he think when he saw his massive house. All those insults he threw at him about 'Daddy's money' would be founded in fact. Usually he was proud of his home and what he had but now he was ashamed. Plus, what would his neighbors think about his beat up truck roving down the street?  
  
Michael shook his head as he pushed the thoughts aside. "Alright, but drive careful-- if my parents catch me drunk, they'll kill me." He shivered at the thought of his father discovering that he was wasted.

" _Your_ parents will kill you?" Trevor barked out a laugh as they rounded the corner to a red Bodhi, alone in the now nearly empty parking lot. "My mom would kick my fucking ass if she knew. I'm probably not going home tonight-- she'd rather I be out all night than come home drunk. And then..."  
  
He trailed off, and from that point on, until they got in the truck, his lips were sealed. He wasn't going to bring up his run-away dad. Wasn't important, he tried to reason with himself.  
  
He threw Michael's practice bag into the back of his truck, and hopped into the driver's seat. Once Michael was in, he started it, and the car jumped forward before the speed evened out. The radio hummed into life, and Trevor hummed along.  
  
" _Growing up it all seems so one-sided_  
_Opinions all provided_  
_The future pre-decided_  
_Detached and subdivided_  
_In the mass production zone_ _  
_ Nowhere is the dreamer or the misfit so alone..."

Michael bobbed his head to the music as the drove along. Thankfully, he didn't live too far from the school. He was surprised by how nice of a condition his truck was. Of course, it was caked with mud, but that was a given. "This car is cool." He slurred as he leaned against the leather upholstery. It was different from his car, a typical mustang. This car was like Trevor, weird but still interesting and tough.  
  
As his house loomed by, he noticed his dad's car in the driveway. He sat up, his face paling like he had just seen a ghost. "Shit..." He murmured under his breath. "It's that house with the black BMW" he mumbled under his breath. The last time he had gotten in trouble with him it hurt, really bad.

"Mmmh, okey dokey then, QB." He pulled up to the curb, turning off his headlights so the truck would be less noticeable. He took one good look at the house and whistled long and low. Not as big as he'd been expecting for a school idol, but still plenty fancy and nice.  
  
"Nice place," he commented, eyeing the clean sliding and pristine lawn. "Alright Townley, I'm kicking you out now. This truck's my bed tonight, and I don't plan on sharing."  
  
He pointed at Michael's house. "Out, now, go on, I need to meditate... or masturbate... or both."  
  
Then, he noticed Michael's paled face, and frowned. He sighed, and started his truck again.  
  
"How are you gonna get it worse, if you walk in drunk, or don't walk in at all tonight?"

Michael looked up at him. "If I don't show up. Then I'll get my mom upset too. She might not swing at me, but I actually give a shit if she's disappointed in me." Did he really just say that out loud? Even his girlfriend didn't know how bad he had it at home. He bit his lip as he looked over at Trevor. Why did he have the urge to hug him?

Yeah, he was definitely drunk.  
  
He just nodded at him. "Thanks, I'll see ya tomorrow after practice." He rummaged around in the back for his bag, then he opened the door and shoved his hands in his pockets. The only thing he could do was face his punishment.

Trevor just nodded and stared as he watched Michael walking up the steps. He waved lamely. This was a familiar scenario-- the exact reason he wasn't going home that night. He understood what Michael had in store for himself, and his throat burned. Why? Probably acid reflux from the booze. That had to be it.  
  
"Yeah. See you tomorrow." He forced the old truck into drive, and sped off into the night, headlights still off.


	2. Rule the World

Trevor didn't show up to that practice.   
  
Or the next one.   
  
Or the one after that.   
  
He didn't even show up to school all of that next week.   
  
At the sixth practice after that first fateful meeting, Trevor finally returned. He was a lot thinner. His eyes were a lot wilder, and his hair was a lot messier.   
  
And he stared at Michael all throughout practice. He sat on the bleachers, ignoring any strange or malicious glares thrown his way. His eyes never left Michael. His hands were shoved deep into hoodie pockets-- the only bit of skin you could see on him was the skin on his face, still bruised. He had a split lip. Overall, he looked like utter shit.   
  
And still, after all this time, he'd finally come.

Michael was smoking when he spotted him standing there. He felt a wrenching in his heart seeing him like that. After every time he was ditched he would storm off, go to Amanda's house and fuck his frustrations away. He wasn't sure why, but it always made him feel better.    
  
At first, Michael said nothing as they spotted each other. The black eye he sustained from his dad's discipline wasn't as fresh anymore, but it was still a vivid purple, lined with yellow and tints of green. He looked the other way as he tried his hardest to not seem hurt by what happened. The first person he felt like he might have the fighting chance to have a connection with wasn't even there the first day he showed up, and he felt betrayed.    
  
He flicked his cigarette aside and took a few steps towards him. His hands were shoved in his pockets, a nervous tick he had developed when he was trying to seem casual. When he reached Trevor, he eyed him up and down. "Well, we both look like shit."

Trevor just nodded quietly, looking Michael up and down with difficult to read eyes. He was, for the most part, expressionless.   
  
"Sorry I wasn't around," he muttered. His throat, and all the words that came out of it, sounded broken, like he'd been punched right in the neck. "Deep shit. But it's dealt with now. Had a score to settle with the Lost. Shit went downhill, I had to ditch town 'till it cooled off. Won't happen again." He stood up, wincing. "I'm sure besides the last week when I brought you home, your life's been better than mine, right?"

Michael's eyes looked to the side and he sighed. "In a way, I guess. My parents kicked me out, at least temporarily. If they were totally serious, they would have changed the locks." He ran his fingers through his short hair and sighed. "It's not that bad; I've sorta been couch surfing. I might have to sleep in my car tonight, but it's no biggie."    
  
He felt bad for Trevor more than he felt bad for himself. He looked really rough; he felt like he should ask him if he's okay or down, but that's not really something guys do. He decided, instead, to focus on the reason they had come here in the first place. "Look, you're gonna fight, you need to learn how to deflect." He reached forward and grabbed his wrists, lifting his arms up. "When you're blocking you gotta keep your arms close to your body to minimize damage."

Trevor hissed, recoiling like Michael grabbing him had hurt. He rubbed his arms and wrists once he pried himself away, glaring.   
  
"A little fuckin' warning before you get handsy, QB? Jesus, alright." His voice quivered a bit in his first sentence, but returned mostly to normal in seconds.   
  
Trevor resumed his defensive stance, fists guarding his face and throat, and with the bony part of his forearms in front of his chest. On instinct, he also spread his feet, getting better footing, but stood as straight and rigid as a pole, tensed and waiting for a blow of some sort.   
  
"How's this?"

He shook his head. "Nah, you can't stand up that straight, or you'll be knocked over right on your ass." He lifted his hand and waited until he got a nod from Trevor. He placed his hands on his shoulders. "You have to crouch a little, but it's good to keep a wide stance like that." He waited until he crouched a little before lifting his hands away from him.    
  
Michael took a step back and made his fighting stance; it was a lot less sloppy than Trevor's. "You see, most people think it's about tension, but nah, that's the opposite of what ya want. You have to stay loose-- that way, you strike when the opportunity is perfect."

"So what you're telling me is that I have to roll with the hits?" He shook his head a little, though he laughed under his breath. "Seems counter-intuitive, but I'm not questioning someone whose popularity comes from being tackled all fuckin' day."   
  
Trevor started hopping back and forth, fists flying out in the air like a boxer's.    
  
"Oh... oh, yeah," he laughed, "I already feel a whole fuckin' ton lighter." All he could think about was how sorry those Lost bastards would be once he was pounding them into the ground, and not the other way around. His grin grew sinister at the thought, and he looked at Michael with a devious plot.   
  
"Duck, Townley!" And he threw a punch in Michael's direction.

He ducked it easily and rolled to the side. Michael swung, but stopped short of socking him in the jaw. "You still got a lot to learn, but that was good." Michael stood up straight and grinned at him nice and wide. "When you throw a punch, you can't punch straight ahead. There's gotta be a curve to it." He swung at nothing to show his form, then repeated it but much slower. "Like anything that involves making a swing, it's all about the follow through."    
  
He could feel them beginning to form a bond as he showed him how to fight. It felt natural; last time, things had gotten way too personal and weird. Plus, it was nice to see that he was at least healthy enough to throw punches, even if they were lousy ones.

Trevor bit back some sarcastic words, rolling his eyes at Michael's display. Even still, it was kind of cool-- this was the most human contact that he'd had in a week, save for having his body beaten to a pulp just outside of town. Hearing someone's voice not throwing insults at him, and punches not thrown his direction, was a strange change from what he'd been so used to.   
  
He stared at Michael as he demonstrated how to throw punches the correct way, noticing the movement of the muscles in his arm. Yeah. Townley was tough. Strong. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about how, on cold nights on the ground, he'd missed that warm arm around him, and how imagining it was there had gotten him through rougher evenings.   
  
"Yeah, yeah. Alright then." Trevor tried to imitate Michael's form, but he was only using his left arm-- the right remained close to his chest, barely noticeable shaking hidden by the thick hoodie he wore.

Michael frowned then he noticed him swinging with his left. The movements were sluggish and incredibly sloppily. It was a tell-tale sign that he wasn't using his dominant hand. "No, you have to be using the dominant one." He was about to reach out and grab his right hand, but the way he held it close to himself told him not to touch it. Michaels expression softened when he saw him huddling over his hand like that. "What happened?"

"It's nothing!" he spat defensively, taking a step back from Michael. Then, he realized the tone of his voice, and lowered it. "It's nothing, I just... something's up with my shoulder. It's not a big deal, I can--"   
  
He raised his right arm, but just before he could be at a good angle to throw a halfway decent punch, his arm jerked back down, and he shouted.   
  
"Fuck!" He held his shoulder with his left hand as his right dangled limp, whimpering. "Those  _ fucking _ Lost cuntwads! Fuckers dislocated my shoulder! Fuck!" He ranted and seethed and paced, all while avoiding looking directly at Michael, afraid of what kind of expression he was going to find, or worse, what he might say in response.

Michael lifted his hands and backed away as he watched Trevor become unhinged yet again. He waited until he heard Trevor beginning to whine. It brought back memories of when he was younger and he found a stray. He had a bad gash in his leg, he helped patch up the wounded leg, and anytime he touched it, the poor thing would whine and cry. He took a step closer. "Let me see it; a lot of guys have fucked up their shoulders before. Hell, I've fucked up my own more than once too."

Trevor leapt back, wary and hissing.   
  
"D-don't fucking touch it!" he spat, and he mentally cursed himself for stuttering. Though, as he said that, he considered what Michael had said-- how lots of the football players had fucked up their shoulders during play and practice. Maybe Michael could help him.   
  
After a moment's consideration, Trevor "Hmphed" in distaste, but nevertheless shrugged out of his hoodie. He looked away from Michael, like a puppy afraid to look at its master after chewing up the sofa. Bruises dotted up and down his arms, some from fights, some from tell-tale signs of drug use. His shirt had the sleeves torn off, and emblazoned across the torso was the band name "Rush", along with their infamous logo, the pentagram. Sure enough, his right shoulder was bulging unusually right at the joint-- clearly out of its socket. The skin around it was red, and looked painful.

"It's gonna hurt, but you gotta trust me, okay?" He reached forward and, with surprisingly gentle fingers, he reached for his back, pushing him forward slightly. "The key here is to let your arm dangle the whole time. You're gonna feel a tension build but you have to let your arm hang like that." He reached forward and placed his hands on his waist to spin him around slowly. At the end of the circle he pushed at his shoulder at a precise angle with a delicate amount of pressure.    
  
There was a sickening pop and his arm was forced back in place. "You're still gonna want to ice it, but you should be fine." He kept his hand on his shoulder, squeezing here and there to ease some of the tension. Michael averted his gaze from the track marks that decorated Trevor’s inner arms. He was way too young to be having those kinds marks on him.

Trevor hissed and whimpered when Michael popped his arm back in place, the pain and pressure radiating through his skull. He almost collapsed, knees buckling, but managed to stay afoot.   
  
The way Michael had handled him throughout the ordeal... it was so gentle. Soft. He sighed as Michael rubbed gentle circles into his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. "That's nice," he muttered half aloud, groaning. With the pain now gone, all he could currently wrap his mind around was Michael's hands on his shoulders.

It was nice to see that what he was doing was actually make a difference. A lot of the time, Michael felt as if he was making things worse. As he could see the signs of the pain leaving Trevor’s body, he smiled. "Alright, you gotta be careful now. I can't teach you jack shit like this. Try not to get into fights with any more of those Lost fuckers."    
  
Seeing how good it made him feel, he kept his fingers where they were. Michael had no idea how much of an internal struggle he was having. He was surprised by the sinewy muscle Trevor had. His eyes looked to the side as he tried to clear his thoughts.

Looking up at Michael, Trevor smiled-- it was the most genuine thing about him since the moment they'd met. Literally all of his defenses were down. His eyes softened, smile lines finally showing, and any sign of tension was miles away.   
  
He wasn't offended when Michael turned away-- he was used to it. Everyone turned away when they stared at him for too long. He just apparently wasn't appealing to other people of the humans race. He knew his mug wasn't the prettiest around, but did it really warrant a response like this? It must have.   
  
"Hey, Michael," he said. "If today's not a good day for a lesson, let's do something else."

Michael looked at him again and moved his hands away from him, both thankful and lamenting the loss of his rough skin beneath his fingers. He crossed his arms as he looked at him. "I don't think it's a good idea to get shit faced again. I mean, it was fun but, uh, yeah." It was hard for him to keep eye contact with him, only because his eyes were so sharp they cut deep into his heart. No one else he met had eyes like that. They were all hazy and lost, but Trevor seemed to know exactly where he was. "I don't really have a curfew since I'm on my own for now."

"Great!" Trevor shouted suddenly, and that tension that had seemed to be gone before suddenly resurfaced. That small smile became uniquely Trevor again, all teeth and no good will, and he snatched Michael's wrist as he dragged him along. "Get in the truck, Townley, we're going convenience store robbing!" Trevor laughed loudly. He was secretly hoping that Michael was going to give him a full-out massage, but that didn't seem to be happening any time soon. Oh well; there were other ways they could have fun. "We need more booze, and I need your help getting it!"

Michael followed after him, stumbling along the way. "We're doing what?" Instead of refusing to go with him he, still went into the truck. The thought of doing something like that made adrenaline trickle into his veins. "Are you insane? If it get arrested, my record will be ruined, I won't be able to play anymore." He looked over at him, that maniacal grin was still plastered on his face. Already he was aching to see that small genuine one again.    
  
Michael sighed as he leaned back into his chair. This seemed like  it was going to happen no matter his protests. Finally, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "What liquor store?"

"No liquor store," Trevor clarified, "A shitty convenience store, a gas station stop just outside of town. No cameras, and the guy at the counter's a total pussy-- I think it's just right for your first gig."   
  
He started the truck, and looked over at Michael. "I'm assuming this is your first gig. Just something nice and easy, a little something to pass the time. Chill out, man. It's going to go just fine." He winked at Michael, and sped out of the school parking lot.   
  
"You pick something to listen to this time," he said as he gestured to the radio. "Or, you know, silence is just fine too. Whatever floats your boat."

He reached forward and fiddled with the radio until he heard what he wanted.   
  
" _ Welcome to your life _ __  
_ There's no turning back _ __  
_ Even while we sleep _ __  
_ We will find you _ __  
_ Acting on your best behaviour _ __  
_ Turn your back on mother nature _ __  
__ Everybody wants to rule the world. "   
  
He looked at Trevor and scowled when he saw him staring. "What? I like new wave; it's cool." Around his friends, he couldn't listen to this more melodic stuff. They all liked the poppy, hair glam metal stuff but Michael hated it. It was too much. But he could never listen to this kind of stuff around them. With Trevor, he felt like he was safe.   
  


Trevor shook his head vigorously. "No no, it's cool stuff." He pointed at his shirt with the "Rush" logo. "These Canadian bastards are my life, alright? I love this kind of music. That's what we were jamming to last time you were in this truck is Rush. Tears For Fears is up there with them in my books in terms of quality. I mean, yeah, Rush does the whole hair shebang, but their music speaks! They’re not just another shitty rock and roll band. New Wave and Rock can live together in harmony! It  _ is  _ possible!"   
  
He ran a red light, turning right without stopping, and got some angry honks in response. He turned around and flipped them off.   
  
"Fuck you, I'm driving with my friendo here!" He turned his attention back to Michael, leaning in close with a smug grin. "As long is it's good ol' rock, none of that punky shit, you listen to whatever the fuck you want in my truck, Michael. My radio is your radio."

Friend? Did he really just call him his friend? Well, it was true, now that he thought about it. Michael was already much closer to Trevor than any of the friends he had now. As Trevor leaned in close to him, he felt his lips twitch slightly in a strange urge to  _ kiss  _ him, but he fought back the urge. What the fuck was the matter with him?    
  
As the convenience store loomed close, he shifted nervously in his seat. “So do you have ski masks or something? How are we gonna pull this off?”

"Easy," Trevor told him as he pulled into the parking lot. There was only one other car there, most likely belonging to the unfortunate man working the counter that night. "I hold this up to his head--"   
  
Trevor produced a gun from the side door, cocking it and swinging it around.   
  
"-- and while I've got him distracted, you grab what you want, and we bolt. I've done it a thousand times, it'll be a piece of cake."   
  
That may have been an exaggeration-- he'd only done it four times in the past, but that was still plenty to know it would work. "It's far enough outside of town that the police won't be able to get here in time to catch us, and we just drive away out back, so the cashier doesn't have any clue which way we went." As he explained this, he pulled his truck into the alley at the side of the convenience store, away from public view. "So, we get our booze, hop in, run away clean. You game?"

He should have said no, told him he was a psycho. But Michael just looked at him and nodded, they were far enough out that no one would recognize him. Well, at least he hoped so. "Yeah, I'm game."    
  
His entire body was shaking as they walked out of the red truck. Trevor walked ahead of him and he made sure to keep his distance. He went to the back and eyed the chips; all those years pretending to play cool was paying off. Now, he simply waited for Trevor to make his move.

Casually, Trevor approached the counter, pretending to be eyeing the donuts in their display case. He even hummed a little to himself, then reached for his pocket as if about to take out his wallet. Instead, he whipped out his pistol, pointing it right at the cashier's head.   
  
"God damn it, not you again!" he shouted.   
  
"Yeah, it's fuckin' me again!" Trevor grinned from ear to ear, waving it around. "Now get on the fucking ground before I shoot your other arm!"   
  
The cashier complied, fearing for his life. Trevor glanced back at Michael once he was sure the cashier couldn’t see, nodding his head to give him the signal that he was good to go.   
  
"That's good, on your knees for me! You look mighty pretty down there, boy. The pleading beggar look suits you!"

Michael was fast he lunged forward and grabbed the 40's-- there were all sorts of brands, and he didn't exactly have time to examine all of them. He was surprised by how many bottles he could carry. Once he was at his limit, he had 7 40's and a few six packs. He nodded towards Trevor to indicate that he was at his limit. He booked it and headed for the doors, hoping that Trevor would be close behind.

After hitting the cashier down unconscious and grabbing a few treats of his own, Trevor bolted out the door behind Michael, snickering and hooting. He didn't bother to open the door to his truck, simply leaping inside, and Michael was barely in the vehicle before the truck was speeding off behind the gas station. He darted into traffic, swerving as he tried to avoid getting hit, before the truck veered off onto a dirt path, outside of town.   
  
"YYYEEEEAAAAAAHHHH!" Trevor's victory cry was maniacal, and he punched Michael in celebration. "See?! That wasn't so bad now, right? And we've got booze and snacks now, too! What'd you grab?" He parked and looked over at Michael expectantly.

Michael was shaking now as he felt adrenaline flooding his veins; they had done it, actually fucking got away with stealing from the convenience store. He had so much energy and he had no idea what to do with it. His first instinct was to go find Amanda and release it on her, but that wasn't really an option right now. Without thinking, he lunged forward and crushed his lips against Trevor's before pulling away and opening the door. "We did it!" He hollered into the sky. He jumped up and down in excitement at it. This felt better than winning any football game.

Trevor stared at Michael with wide eyes. What the hell just happened? What the hell... just happened. He couldn't wrap his mind around it. What. The hell. Just happened. They'd been driving, and he'd gone into the woods outside of town, up in the hills. He'd stopped the truck, asked Michael what they'd gotten, and then...   
  
Michael had just kissed him. And all he could do was stare like an idiot.   
  
Soft and warm. Just like the rest of his body. Trevor wondered if other parts of his body were as warm and soft.   
  
Shit.   
  
Trevor stumbled out of the truck, and promptly face-planted in the dirt.

Michael started laughing hysterically at the sight of him eating shit. "Oh shit, are you okay?" The kiss didn't bug him, it was just a reaction to the overload of chemicals in his body. Literally anyone could have been there and he would have done that. At least, that was what he told himself. "I stole some 40's and six packs. It's a good thing you stole snacks; it looks like we're camping out here tonight."

Trevor didn't move from the dirt, just looking up at Michael with confused, bright eyes.   
  
"40's and six packs. And I crammed donuts and chips. Yeah, sounds like a blast."   
  
He sat up, brushing the dirt off of himself and scrambling to his feet. He reached inside the truck, yanking out the aforementioned treats.   
  
Should he mention what had just happened? Michael didn't seem to even realize what he'd just done, and Trevor wasn't sure whether now would be the best time to be questioning Michael's sexuality. Still, the questioned burned in his mind: what was that all about?   
  
He tossed a bag of chips to Michael, taking his own beer and donut and clambering into the back of the truck. He had a coarse blanket in a bin, which he yanked out and made a makeshift bed out of, before plopping down to enjoy his ill-gotten gains. "I take it you liked that little escapade of ours?" he teased.

Michael jumped in next to him and grinned ear to ear. The sun was setting now, and under any other circumstance, it would have been strangely romantic. "Hell yeah, I don't think I've ever felt a rush like that; look!" He lifted his hand to show that it was still trembling. He munched on a few chips and took a long gulp of his beer.    
  
"This is nice. I don't think I've been this far outta town before. It's quiet." He laid there and looked up at the sky as he kept his distance from Trevor. He had probably confused the hell out of him with that random kiss, hell maybe he was even disgusted with him.

"Gets cold," Trevor warned quietly. His eyes hadn't left Michael since he'd climbed into the truck bed, searching for a sign, any sign, that that kiss had meant something more than adrenaline-induced lack of thought. He took a large bite out of his donut. "Spent all of last week out here hiding from the Lost. You'll spend one night and decide you'd rather be at home in your nice cozy bed under your fancy roof."   
  
Fuck it. He had to say something.   
  
"Uhm... listen... about that kiss..." But he wasn't sure what else to say.

Michael let out a deep breath through his nose; he knew it was impossible for them to just pretend that it didn't happen. "Yeah, I'm sorry about that. That probably made you really uncomfortable. I was just feelin’ a rush from the score." He turned to look at him with an apologetic shrug. "It was either that or punch you in the face again."

A laugh bubbled out of Trevor’s throat at that, and he cracked open his beer.   
  
"Hey pal, I'm not complaining," he told him, and he meant it. As if he was going to tell him that it was his first kiss though-- no way. Michael didn't need to know that. Sure, he'd hooked up, but no one wanted anywhere near his lips with their own. This was new. This was different. This was nice.   
  
After a swig of his beverage, he leaned back and stared Michael down.   
  
"But you could have at least asked me out to dinner first, pal. That is, unless you consider this dinner?" And he motioned at their treats with a snicker, leaning closer to Michael with a grin full of shit and taunting eyes.

"Well I sorta have to don't I?" He lifted the bag and emptied the rest into his mouth. "Haven't had a good meal since I got kicked out." Trevor getting closer to him didn't bother him too much. He was right about it getting cold. Michael zipped up his coat and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. The kiss from Trevor was different from him. It was tender and warm; as of late, Mandy's had started to feel mechanica,l like she kissed him out of obligation. He looked at him, he felt like he wanted to say something, but he wasn't sure what, so he just opted for silence.

Trevor sighed-- he'd expected this, for Michael to get cold. Wordlessly, he removed his hoodie, draping it over his shoulders like a cloak.   
  
"Can't have the star QB suffering now, can we?" he asked sarcastically. As soon as the jacket left his body, the sun disappeared behind the horizon, and Trevor started shivering. He didn't really have meat on his bones, just muscle and sinew. He laid down and curled up on himself to conserve body heat.   
  
"So this is a dinner date then?" he teased through chattering teeth. "When do I get introduced to the parents?"

"You really don't wanna meet them." He frowned when he saw Trevor curling in on himself to stay warm. He scooted closer and wrapped his arms around his shoulders. He really didn't understand why he gave him the jacket when he clearly needed it more than him.    
  
Their faces were just inches apart; there was that smell wafting off of him. It made Michael feel something stir in his stomach. Without thinking, he leaned forward to give him a slow and lingering kiss. He stayed there for a few long seconds before pulling away.    
  
"Shit, I'm sorry I did it again."

The thinner teen blinked, staring at Michael with eyes wide like a deer's. Again. He'd done it again.   
  
He wanted more. He wanted so much more, more contact, more of that smell of tobacco smoke and expensive hair products. If he was going to be a cocktease like this, Trevor wasn't going to have it. He dug his fingers into Michael's hair, and turned on his side, facing him, and looped a leg over both of Michael's.   
  
"Fuck you," he growled suddenly, and he pulled Michael back in, returning the kiss. It was sloppy and inexperienced, just like his fighting techniques, but it was enthusiastic, and passionate. He didn't move away for a second, despite clicking teeth, not even for air, biting his lower lip occasionally.

Michael let out a grunt of protest for a moment. Michael had assumed that he creeped Trevor out when he kissed him but it was the total opposite. Shit he really fucked up, he wanted to push Trevor away. But that smell, his warm lips his thin body. It felt good, right even.   
  
Why was he doing this? Had it been that long since he had felt this kind of company before? Him and Amanda hooked up pretty often but this was different, much more primal and heated. Oh, did this make him gay now? He really hadn't thought about any other guy like that before. With a huff, he pushed those thoughts aside. A hand reached up and gripped his shaggy hair.

Trevor's head was spinning, and his nostrils were filled with nothing but Michael, Michael, Michael. Then, for a moment, reality came crashing back into his mind. The star quarterback was on top of him-- the most popular kid in school, who had the hottest girl wrapped around his arm.   
  
Trevor panicked. His hands scrambled to push Michael away as he panted and cried out. "What the fuck are you doing?!"

Michael sat on the opposite side of the truck now, the cold seeping into his bones from the lack of contact. "Huh?" He shook his head as he tried to bring himself back to earth. Trevor looked frightened, like an animal that had been cornered. "I was just...in the moment and, adrenaline..." He looked down at lap now, totally ashamed of himself.

"You..." Trevor swallowed, struggling to find the right words to properly convey his confused emotions. He started shivering again now, but had backed as far into the other end of the truck bed as he possibly could. "I mean..." Trevor sighed, sagging. "This is... I'm not complaining, alright? It's fuckin' nice, feeling another fucking human being touching me, but... you..."   
  
He sighed again.   
  
"You've got a life ahead of you, Michael. That day we met, when I was taunting you? I was full of shit, alright? If anyone's gonna bite the dust between us, it's me. And... and you don't want me dragging you down. And you've got Amanda, all these friends that care about you... you're going to throw that all away if you get involved with me like this, and I don't think that's what you want."   
  
His breath condensed in front of him in the cool night air. How the fuck had Michael Townley, of all people, taken his carefully-guarded heart within a week? It didn't make sense-- he'd kept himself under lock and key so he wouldn't get hurt, and yet here he was, alone with the fucker in the back of his own truck, craving touch, craving his affection.

Michael breathed in the cold night air, the air coating his lungs. It helped him come to his senses, helped his thinking. "They don't care about me. Amanda cheats on me with any guy with a pulse. None of my friends actually give a shit about me; if they did, I wouldn't be sleeping outside with you. And my parents?" He shook his head. "Well, I didn't get this black eye from football." He sat up a little and ran his fingers through his hair. "You're not wrong. I can get into a good college, land a job in the city and marry Amanda. I could live the good life and have a family but..." Michael shook his head. "I'll be dead on the inside. I'm fucking 18 and I already feel like a zombie." He closed his eyes and pounded the bed of the truck.    
  
"Robbing that store was the most alive I've felt in a long time and you, you just make me feel like I'm a person again. I dunno what it is or why but you're the only person I feel..." He felt hot tears running down his face. Fuck, he probably looked like a giant baby now. "I feel like you're the only person who actually listens to me."

Running frustrated fingers through his hair, Trevor bit back tears of his own. It wasn't supposed to be like this-- He'd gone under those bleachers hoping to get away from those heartless fuckers at school, but just ended up getting more tangled in the mess of high school drama.   
  
"Yeah, yeah, I fucking listen to you," Trevor spat, "but that's only because you listened to me when I was spouting shit your way. I thought I was supposed to return the fucking favor or some other dumb shit, I don't know! And now we're here, in the middle of nowhere with shitty booze and each other, freezing our asses off."   
  
Then he burst into laughter, hysterical laughter.   
  
"This is literally only the second fucking day of us being "friends". If Amanda wasn't cheating on you, you had genuine friends, and your dad wasn't a fucking cock waffle, would you be here tonight, with me, if you had the choice?!" His lower lip trembled, a mix from the cold and tears spilling down his cheeks. "Why would you risk ruining your fucking life hanging out with trash like me?"

"I would." He stated simply. This was hard; it wasn't often that he talked about himself. Even when he was with his therapist, he was really bad at expressing himself when it came to his feelings. "I coulda swiped my dad's credit card and got a motel, but I'm here with you." He scooted a little closer and sat cross legged across from him.  "Why do ya do that? I know it's the second day but I noticed a lot about you. You never talk about yourself, anytime the focus is shifted towards you you deflect and focus on me and insult me."

"I don't know."   
  
Trevor said it quickly, and quietly. He knew it was bullshit, but it was the only answer he wanted to give.    
  
"... I don't know. I guess... I'm not used to people caring about me, or what I have to say. I'm not used to people being genuinely interested about whatever the fuck happens in my crazy, fucked up little world I live in. It's always about everybody else, that's just what I'm used to. And any time I try to bring up my own life, they try to redirect to whatever  _ they _ are interested in, or what they want to talk about."   
  
He wasn't pressing himself against the front of the truck like he was trying to melt into it anymore, but he was still very clearly on guard, trying to anticipate Michael's next move. "I gave up trying. They wanted to talk about their lives? Sure, I'd talk about their lives. About how selfish and fucked up they were. Like I did with you. I thought you'd shut me out after that, but you didn't."

Michael could feel his chest tighten; he felt the same exact way. How could he possibly have found the only other person who felt the same way he did? He reached behind and scratched his head. "So are you pissed that I didn't shut you out?"

Trevor thought about it for a moment-- he didn't seem quite sure of the answer himself.   
  
"... No..? I don't know. It was just... unexpected. I thought that maybe, when you said you'd help toughen me up, you were planning some sort of sick prank. But I was gone for a week, and you still came and talked to my sorry ass. I guess, after that, I couldn't have doubted you."   
  
He fiddled with his hands, afraid to look up. "Your dad may be a piece of shit, but you've got a good home, Mikey. Can I call you that? Fuck it, I'm calling you it anyways. You live in a nice neighborhood, with neighbors that most likely don't want to murder you. I didn't come from that, okay?" He inhaled through his nostrils. "That knife I'm always toting around is all I have left of my shit-stain father, I live in a fucking trailer, and half the house is caved in, that leaves only the bedroom and the toilet. I sleep on the floor. I get cuffed on the head a lot, and stealing shit at the convenience store like what we just did is a daily reality for me."   
  
Trevor looked up at Michael with tired eyes-- and since earlier that night, that off-guard, sincere smile returned, though it was small and sad.   
  
"I don't tell people this because I'm tired of hearing 'I'm so sorry for you,' and, 'you must be so miserable,' because I am. I am miserable, and being reminded of it doesn't help me. I didn't want you feeling sorry for me, either. I didn't want you to think I was weak because of my circumstances. Fuck, Michael, it's just hard, alright?"   
  
His head clunked back against hard metal as stars started popping into existence in the sky.

As Michael watched him explain his situation, all he could feel was pity for the poor guy, which made him understand why he wanted to keep it to himself. It was easier to walk around as the local psycho rather than a charity case. "T, I couldn't think you were weak even if you were wearing a dress and dancing to Madonna." He adjusted himself so he was sitting next to him, leaning against the back window of the truck. His hand was next to Trevor's, but he was careful not to touch it. If he wanted contact, he would make it.    
  
"At least now I know we're both miserable-- maybe there's some comfort in that. Rich, poor, no matter what, people fucking suck." He didn't say he felt bad for him or that he could empathize; that's not what he wanted to hear. "Sometimes, hearing yourself talk about your own problems can become redundant. So when you tell other people, it just makes you feel like shit." He turned to look at him. "At least that's how I see it, but I mean, with you, you always seem to have advice. Me? Well it's like you said, I'm just some QB idiot."

Trevor pondered Michael's words carefully. He did have a point-- most people in the world fucking sucked. But Michael didn't. That was the kicker to all of this. Michael was different; he wasn't as half-witted as Trevor had been lead to believe at first. It was strange and refreshing all at once, knowing that he'd been wrong about somebody in a good way.   
  
"You're not a QB idiot," he whispered. "I thought you were, but you're not. And if you are, then fuck it, you're  _ my _ idiot QB."   
  
He grasped Michael's hand, and even in the dark light, it was easy to see the red flushing his face.   
  
"I get it if you don't want this. If you don't want me. It's okay, I got a lot of fucking baggage. I get it. And it'd be so much fucking easier to just pretend this night ever happened, but Mikey-- I'm only going to fight for it if you fight with me."

Absentmindedly, his thumb runs over the back of Trevor's hand-- such a small gesture. "Although you were being a dick, you had a point. Guys bein’ together isn't really something we can get away with unscathed. Last semester when I was out with Mandy, Josh Stevens and Robert Jones beat the shit out of some gay kid and plastered naked pictures of him all over his locker. Poor fuck was in a coma for a week." He took a deep breath. His head rested on Trevor’s shoulder and he sighed. "I know my dad would literally kill me, no exaggeration." Michael's hand squeezed his tighter. "But bein’ around you feels so right, y’know? I wanna rob shit and talk with you."

Trevor was terrified. There were so many new emotions swirling around in his skull, and none of them had any logical answers to what he could say to Michael. Especially not when the guy was resting his head on his shoulder. He was risking so much to be with Trevor, and he didn't know what he was supposed to say. Thanks?   
  
As Michael leaned against him, he blurted out the first thing to come to mind.   
  
"You feel good."   
  
He hit himself in the face directly after that. Smooth moves, Mr. Grooves.

Michael snickered at that, before sitting back up again. "We don't have to sleep in the truck, y’know." He rummaged through his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. "Stole this from the collection jar back at the convenience store; it had a surprising amount of money."

Trevor beamed at Michael. Getting a room... that was a first. His chest swelled with affection and gratitude for the QB he'd fallen so quickly and hard for.

“Wow… I, uh… that’d be pretty cool, actually. You wanna?”

Michael leaned back his head and laughed. “It’d be better than out here. It’s fucking cold, dude.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Trevor leapt up suddenly, yanking out the blanket from beneath Michael and hastily folding it up to put it away. “It ain’t gonna get any warmer any time soon, come on, come on, get in the front seat!” He beamed over and down at Michael, that genuine smirk that Michael loved so much, and for the first time in years, felt like everything was going to be better than just okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's that! Another special thanks to basedgrips for RPing this out with me.
> 
> Basedgrips Tumblr: basedgrips.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr: [dylawa.tumblr.com](https://dylawa.tumblr.com)


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